


Confessions to the Wind

by LetThereBeDestiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean In Love, Fluff and Angst, Longing, M/M, Memories, cas died before the fic's timeline, dean visiting cas' grave, sam is like the best brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 09:23:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10510908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetThereBeDestiel/pseuds/LetThereBeDestiel
Summary: Cas is dead, and Dean has some things he'd like to say which he hadn't managed to confess in time.He visits Cas' grave four times, and every time is different than the last.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this isn't supposed to be a tear jerker, but more of a fic that presents everything I imagined that deeply-in-love Dean would want to get off his chest after he missed his opportunity to confess all these things to Cas.

Most people don’t like cemeteries. They find them creepy, the graves menacing and the dirt filthy with secrets. You wouldn’t like to walk on that ground barefoot.

Hunters weren’t most people, however. Graveyards were practically their second home – whether due to a next of kin staying in one, or their job compelling them to visit one on a regular basis.

It was ought to happen sometime – Dean Winchester would have visited a cemetery sooner or later this month; but with all his will, he couldn’t justify being here today. He couldn’t tell himself it was ought to happen; he couldn’t make peace with it – with entering his car and driving here and going through the funeral – a sumptuous word for a few friends saying a few words – with dry eyes and an empty heart and a lump in his throat, and asking his brother and sister and friends to give him a moment alone with the fresh dirt that didn’t even have a tombstone yet.

Because angels weren’t supposed to die.

He knew that he would die someday. He’s accepted the fact that his brother would, too, and Charlie, and everyone he’s ever loved. But not Cas.

Stupid, stupid Cas who was smitten by some white-collar angel because he was too proud of himself and his stupid human friends.

Dean looked up from his hands, making sure no one was around.

Finally, he spoke.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” He huffed with half a smile. He looked at the silent soil, almost waiting for it to squint at him.

There was no answer.

“Just making sure,” he mumbled. A long, white bandage was taped to his forearm, protecting most of it. He felt the need to scratch it off, even though the skin underneath it still burned.

Starting to feel the pressure of his body on his crouching legs, he changed his position. His knee touched Cas’ soil, and he quickly pulled it back onto the poorly-kept lawn. Cas might appreciate the personal space, he thought.

“So, uh.” He looked at the ground. “I guess I should get on with it. Sam and Charlie probably want to go home.”

Again – no answer.

“I, uh… There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while now, and I never really…” His fingers clutched the hem of his coat, fidgeting with it. “Never really found the right time, I guess.”

He was nervous – the words he was about to say he’s never confessed to anyone before.

“So, um.” He straightened a stalk of grass with two fingers. “I dunno how to… uh. Well.”

 _Way to go, Winchester,_ his mind shot at him. _Can’t even speak to a dead body._

“I know you can’t hear me,” he started. “You’re probably in heaven or something – actually, that’s where angels go when they’re _alive,_ so. I don’t even know where you’d be right now. Anyway, this is something I need to get off my chest, even if you can’t listen anymore.” If not for the hole in his chest, he would feel like a lovestruck schoolboy, licking his lips and rehearsing in his mind one last time the words that were reluctantly whispered against so many steamy motel bathroom mirrors.

“So, uh, this might come as a surprise to you, especially due to recent events – I’ll admit, a big hole in the head is not very attractive-“ he caught himself smiling and straightened his lips. “But then again, if it covers your face, then it must be an improvement.”

The wind wasn’t interested in stalling jokes and stutters.

“I guess I’ll just…” He sighed. “I loved you, Cas. You know- you… knew I did. But it wasn’t… It wasn’t like that, anymore, at some point. I was _in love_ with you, you know.” He pursed his lips. “No, you don’t. Idiot. Okay. Well.” He let out an exhale. He had assumed it’d be a relief to get these words out – these few words that have been troubling him for so long, taking his breath away when Cas walked by, when Cas looked at him, when Cas hesitated before saying something completely mundane, just like he himself did sometimes; the words that have been numbing his brain and his heart during the last twenty one hours.

“So, uh, that’s it, basically.” He paused for a moment. “I feel like I should specify, though.”

The wind swirled around him and ruffled the fallen leaves, expectant. 

“I guess I should start with why I never told you. I know it seems stupid now – in hindsight, nothing you’d say, no matter how bad, would be worth you not knowing – but the fear of rejection seemed reasonable at the time.”

He looked at the damp soil, and it stared back blankly.

“I’m talking to dirt,” he sighed. “Great. That’s a great sign.”

Behind him, the brittle leaves crumpled under someone’s shoes. He looked back, finding his brother standing between two graves, looking away once Dean noticed his presence. Dean stood up hastily, wiping dirt off his clothes.

“How long-?” He blurted, but quickly composed himself.

“Sorry,” he said, glancing one more time in Cas’ direction. They’d have to finish the one-sided conversation another time.

“Got a little carried away.”

They walked to the Impala in silence.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam said, a moment before they reached the hearing range of Charlie, who was sitting inside the car. Dean looked at his brother, and Sam rested a hand on his shoulder.

“I knew, anyway.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next time Dean visited Cas occurred one week later.

He sat down, his head levelling with the headstone. For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

“I was thinking,” he opened eventually. His eyes skipped across the freshly-carved words on the gray marble. Sam had forced him to take a few days off that week, and he’s had more than enough time to think – about Cas, about the past year, and other things…

“’Bout a lot of things,” he went on. “But mostly about the times I almost told you.” The memories that floated into his mind were way too many, he’d shamefully confess, but some stood out better than others.  “Those nights in purgatory…”

Cas would sit beside Dean while he slept – quiet, listening to the sounds of faraway and near monsters. Oddly, Dean slept best when Cas was around.

“…Last thanksgiving, when Sam made us say one thing we’re thankful for…” Cas had refused to thank his abandoning father for anything, but Sam had pressed on, only giving him a rest when Cas admitted he’s thankful for his friends. Both men had eyed Dean, but he’d hardly noticed his brother; Cas had looked at him in a way that made him feel like Cas’ _friends_ wasn’t exactly the list he was included in. Nonetheless, he’d  looked away, never phrasing that hunch aloud.

“But mostly, about the night before you…” He looked up, his voice fading. Cas would know what he was talking about, Dean was positive; that night Dean was the closest he’d ever been to telling Cas how he felt, and he’d bet everyone involved in the interaction could tell – despite Cas’ bewilderment toward the human nature.

Dean was in the bunker, packing for their trip the next morning. Cas had appeared at the door of his room, holding a bunch of guns Dean had asked him to bring from the dungeon. He’d put the weapons on the bed and turned to Dean, who was looking at his trench coat, smiling.

 _Your collar,_ he’d said, motioning weakly at his own neck. Cas had looked down in confusion. Dean had sighed and stepped closer, eyeing him before he adjusted the coat’s collar, his fingers hovering an inch away from Cas’ neck for too long.

 _Going for the big guys tomorrow, eh?_ He’d asked friendlily, distracting himself from the way Cas’ eyes fixated on his.

This behavior was completely normal in Cas’ eyes, he’d reminded himself. He wasn’t anything special.

Cas had sighed in a small way that made Dean’s heart twist in his chest.

 _I hate fighting against my brothers,_ he’d said gruffly.

 _I know._ Dean’s reply was cut short as he’d realized his fingers were still resting on Cas’ shoulders. Before he’d managed to pull them away, though, he’d noticed Cas was either unaware of the touch, or very much comfortable with it, as he didn’t seem to want to readjust his position nor had his stare left Dean’s eyes.

Looking into that bright blue void, Dean’s heart had picked up courage.

 _Hey, uh…_ He hadn’t moved his hands. _I should tell you something._

They’d looked at each other for a long while. Cas was quietly patient.

Way more patient than he’d be if he knew what you want to tell him, Dean’s mind whispered.

He’d let go of Cas’ shoulders.

 _Forget it,_ he’d said.

A moment later, Sam had walked in with a jug of holy oil; and that was it.

“Y’know what, you probably don’t wanna hear this story,” Dean said now. “Will only make you feel bad, knowing you. As if you weren’t always too kind to me.”  As no response came, Dean let his mind bring up a memory of one of Cas’ smiles.

He stayed there for a while, listening to the wind.

At last, as the day began to darken, he stood up slowly and brushed the dirt off his pants. He touched his forearm absently, feeling for the rougher, burnt strip of skin – it still ached whenever he moved his arm and made the skin stretch.

“So, uh. Sam said we should leave town today, and I agreed. So…” He walked to the head of the grave, touching the gravestone.

“I guess this is goodbye.”

He wanted to say something, let the Cas that was still alive in his mind know how much this goodbye hurt him, but the words fleeted from his mouth like ants scattering away from a fallen drop of water.

So he just stood there for a moment. And then he left.

 

* * *

 

 

The third time Dean visited Cas was way into the summer, when the yellowing leaves were barely hanging on to their branches above the dry ground.

With light stubble and a limp from a recent hunting trip, Dean walked over to Cas’ grave and pressed the tips of his fingers onto the cool marble.

“It’s been a while,” he said. Without further ado he sat down, leaning back on the heels of his palms.

He didn’t speak. It’s been over six months since he sat there last, and if Cas ever had a way of seeing him, Dean imagined he wouldn’t care to listen to him excusing his absence.

Instead, he let his mind wander. For the first time in months, he found himself thinking about the moments following Cas’ death.

Of course, seeing your best friend die was never a pleasant experience; but most times Cas came back to life sooner rather than later.

It took Dean a while to comprehend that this time was different. It wasn’t until the wings began to appear on the ground that he stepped away from the fight and hurried to Cas’ side, touching his chest, trying to stop the feathers from being scorched on the ground. He shouted, called for help, promised to bring Cas back, but deep inside his mind he knew there was no point; he’d never seen Cas’ wings, not in any of the countless times he’d seen him die  before.

He should’ve moved away, but his mind was too slow. His skin burned when the dying wings met his arm instead of the soil and scorched black feathers flesh-deep on his right forearm and wrist. He let go of Cas’ head then, clutching his aching arm.

Now, his injured arm wasn’t in constant pain as it had used to be – it only itched from time to time, some days more violently than others.

“I wonder if you’d be mad,” he said aloud, “if you knew I’m here after all this time. I know I should move on, but I don’t want to. You’ve been my only friend for so long; I don’t wanna repay you by forgetting.” Then, his tone sadder, he added, “and then there’s the matter of my heart being crushed into pieces.”

He fell into silence again, folding his sleeves in the August heat and leaning back on his palms again.

In retrospect, he didn’t regret Cas’ feathers burning into him. They were almost a good enough replacement for a picture he didn’t have. If he would ever live long enough to forget Cas’ face, at least something of him would be going with Dean to his grave.

 

* * *

 

 

The wind spread a hiss across the trees and broke leaves from their branches in a way that wouldn’t make you shudder outside a graveyard.

A few feet lower, two figures were standing on the ground in front of a rectangle of fresh soil.

“This was ought to happen sometime,” Sam said, looking down.

“Not so soon, though.” Beside him, a quieter voice answered. He looked at her, only wrapping an arm around her shoulders in response.

“I just hope-“

“He’s in a better place,” he cut her off.

“We know better than that,” Charlie murmured. She sighed, looking at the grave beside Dean’s. One thing for sure, Dean would appreciate them digging out Nicolas Cage’s grave, whoever that was, to bury him next to Cas.

“Let’s go,” she said finally.

“Can you… Give us a moment?” Sam asked.

“Sure,” she said, turning away toward the car. He watched her go for a moment; then he crouched beside Dean’s soil.

“People say you can hear it if someone’s talking to your grave.” He paused for a moment, his lips puckering. “I really hope that’s not true, or else I’m going to spend the rest of my days running from your ghost while you’re trying to haunt me.” He sat down, absently grabbing a stalk of grass and curling it with his fingers.

“I used to get mad at you for calling me Sammy.” He let out a long sigh. “That didn’t prevent you from calling me your baby brother ‘till the day you… Well, actually, ‘till last week, to be precise. So I guess I should be honest with you, now that I can.” He mused for a long while, weighing his words.

“I knew you were gonna die,” he admitted eventually, his head dipping. His fierce attempt not to feel guilt failed all at once; his heart stung.

“I checked and re-checked my sources, of course, but you had no way out of it. So I…” He hesitated. Something inside him hoped and feared that to his next words, Dean would magically appear and smack his head, so mad at his brother that he might actually blaze back to life in some sort of miraculous flame; but despite Sam’s shameful confession, the field remained still.

“I… Made a deal. Not with a crossroad demon – they could never pull off what I wanted to get. I met up with Crowley. One year for making sure you were going to Heaven. With Cas there, too, and Charlie, when her time comes. She doesn’t know anything about it and she’s never going to, I made sure of that too. So… you’re all set.” He looked around.

No angry ghost; that meant Dean was in Heaven.

Good. That was good.

Charlie was waiting, he reminded himself.

He stood up, stopping to touch Dean’s headstone before he walked away.


End file.
